


Howl

by QuirkyBrunettes



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 07:39:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15092195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuirkyBrunettes/pseuds/QuirkyBrunettes
Summary: Jaime Lannister has sworn an oath to Brienne of Tarth to return the Stark girls to safety.  So when he finds the eldest, Regan Stark, alone in the streets of King's Landing, the man without honor does the unthinkable: he promises to protect her from the lion's den by hiding her in his own rooms.





	1. Chapter 1

Jaime " _Kingslayer_ " Lannister

" _Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall_ " _\- Shakespeare_

Regan " _Little Wolf_ " Stark

_“and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant  
and whatever a sun will always sing is you” -EE Cummings_


	2. Prologue

Some days, King’s Landing threatened to suffocate him completely. He could barely breathe through all the politics and betrayal and paranoia. He would prefer to be on the battlefield any day, covered in blood and sweat with the horrid smell of death all around him. That was home. There was no deception and lies. You killed your enemy or they killed you. Jaime could appreciate the adrenaline-fueled battle rage that was muscle memory and natural instinct.

He felt an ache run through his phantom limb. He could still imagine the weight of a sword in his right hand, could imagine flexing his practiced fingers. Today, the rain made the hollow pain worse than ever. The gold hand felt heavy and cumbersome, and he wanted to rip it off and let the mutilated flesh breathe.

Jaime continued his pointless walk down the impoverished streets. No one would dare touch him. Tywin’s treasured son and the infamous Kingslayer. The name left a bad taste in his mouth, no matter how deserved it may have been. He almost felt stupid in his bright golden armor, surrounded by people who lived like rats in the slums. But he was the Lion of Lannister, and his arrogance was renowned throughout the Seven Kingdoms. His mind was lost in thoughts of his twin’s coldness and his own gnawing guilt over their last interaction in that hateful sept. Cersei’s cold tone had been cutting, and the easy way she had dismissed him after glancing at his maimed hand devastated him. A hundred problems had surfaced since his return- most pressingly, the murder of Joffrey. Jaime did not know how to feel. The boy was his own, but he was also twisted and cruel and Jaime had never been a father to him. He felt more despair for his little brother’s fate than for his son’s death. The unknowing Baratheon bastard children might share his genes, but that hardly made him a father.

They lived one mistake, one slip of the tongue, away from the blade. Still, he missed the feeling of a sword in his hand- that easy, assured confidence that had cut down countless men. He missed being whole and wanted. He truly was the monster they all made him out to be, and not for the first time, Jaime Lannister considered letting his left hand claim one sole victim. He had always dreamed of a glorious death in the arms of the woman he loved, but these days the thought of slitting his own wrists seemed fitting.

Jaime’s thoughts were interrupted when he caught sound of a low growl coming from a dark corner. The sound was beastly. His hand went to the hilt of his sword, before he realized it had been the gold mockery of a hand that had moved on instinct.

“Fucking useless,” he muttered to himself.

Without a hint of self-preservation, he took another step closer to the sound. Jaime couldn’t even muster up enough self-respect to feel fear; he had died that night in the forest when his hand had been cut clean off. He squinted against the darkness, only to find himself reeling back at the sight.

Here, in a King’s Landing, where the majority of street animals were stray dogs and rats, lay an enormous wolf under a flickering yellow lamp. It bared its teeth at Jaime, amber eyes narrowing in suspicion. Uselessly, his left hand grappled with his sword, holding it in front on him. Jaime could not understand why the wolf wasn’t attacking, until he noticed the animal lay curled around a tiny form protectively. A catatonic girl lay wrapped up in its light brown fur. She stared ahead, either not caring or unaware of Jaime’s presence. Her hair was nearly black, and it looked even starker against her pale skin. From where Jaime stood, he could see the purplish veins running below her wrists, and he was struck by the delicacy. How easily the pinprick of a needle would draw blood. Her eyes, which were bloodshot and puffy, were a confused color. Not clear like Cersei’s unmistakable jade, but an undulating color somewhere between a muddied green and honey brown. There was no denying the fact that she was a Stark, not with that wolf wrapped around her. Still, Jaime could have mistaken her for a doe rather than a wolf at the moment. She turned her gaze to him, unseeing and miserable, and Jaime was aware of the blood coating every inch of her person before she passed out. And the strangest thing came over him; for the oddest moment, Jaime felt a wave of protectiveness for the girl. Perhaps it was just one broken thing sympathizing for another, he mused.

He just _had_ to have made that ridiculous oath to Brienne, Lady of Tarth and persistent pain in his ass.


	3. Chapter 3

Every time she closed her eyes, she watched her brother die. Her older brother, her best friend since she had come into this world a year after him, stabbed through the heart as he stared helplessly at her. The soldiers had slit her mother’s throat and thrown her corpse away like a piece of garbage, murdered and desecrated her family. She could imagine the bile that had risen in the back of her throat, the taste sharp and acidic, when she had doubled over and thrown up at the sight of her good-sister’s slashed belly. Regan remembered it all. And so, when she opened her eyes to the sight of red all around her, she couldn’t do much more than blink stupidly and wait for the nightmare to finish.

Except, she belatedly realized, she was already awake.

Her heart thumped against her chest. It felt like she had swallowed a drum as it pounded in tandem with her skittish breathing. She looked around wildly, noticing for the first time the lavish bed she was laying on; it was deep red and the sheets were silk against her skin. She felt like she was drowning in blood.

When her eyes landed on the large figure in the shadowed corner of the room, Regan shrieked loudly and attempted to stand. Her legs nearly gave out as she kicked out of the sheet’s ensnarement.

“Who’s there?” Her voice quivered, and she forced herself to be stronger. “Where have you taken me?”

The figure stepped forward into the light, and Regan’s knees buckled. She knew that face anywhere. Even with the bleated gold locks cut short and the additional scars, she could never forget the face of the man who belonged to a house that had destroyed her family.

_The Lannisters send their regards. The Lannisters send their regards._

“Look who’s finally awake.”

She shook her head to clear away the horrific thoughts. Not now not now not now. Without another rational thought, she grabbed the golden chalice from a table nearby and chucked it at Jaime Lannister’s ridiculous face.

Years of battle must have sharped his reflexes, because he easily caught the object and glared at her. “Well. I take it introductions won’t be necessary then.”

She didn’t dare attempt to throw another object. Now that the initial shock had begun to wear off, she was struck with the horrible reality of her situation. Coming to King’s Landing had been a mistake, but she just had to try and reunite with her last remaining family. Now she was to be killed in the same place that had let her father’s head roll for crimes he had not committed. She fell back against the wall, looking up at her captor with no expression.

“Get on with it, Kingslayer.” She infused her voice with as much coldness as possible, but Regan had never taken to the cold quiet like the other Starks. Robb had always said she wore her heart on her sleeve.

He took a step closer to her, and Regan glare landed on the stiff gold hand in place of his famed sword hand. Jaime seemed to notice her focus, because he cleared his throat and tucked the hand into his pocket.

“And what is it that I should be getting on with?” He was still walking in her direction, and his voice was dreadfully mocking.

“Killing,” she pulled down her sleeve to cover her own injured hand on habit, and cocked her head to the side. “That is what you Lannisters do best, isn’t it?”

He came to a stop in front of her, much closer than Regan would have liked. As she was forced to either tilt her head upwards or stare at the Kingslayer’s chest, she grew envious of how tall Sansa had always been.

Surprisingly, Jaime bent down so his face was level with hers and smirked. With their closeness, she could almost see why he was rumored to be the most handsome man in the Seven Kingdoms, but then he opened his mouth and ruined any beauty his features held. “Perhaps. But I’d say it’s much better than your family’s uncanny ability to die.”

Regan reeled backwards, sucking in a sharp breath as if he had struck her. She squeezed her eyes shut, uncaring of the man in front of her, and tried to rid herself of the memory of her mother’s horrified scream as she tried to alert Robb of the Boltons’ betrayal. Her hands clenched and unclenched, and Regan realized she could not breathe properly. She felt like someone had squeezed her lungs until they had turned to putty in her chest, and she fought to take in a full breath. All she could manage was a series of exasperated wheezes. There had been so, so much blood that night. They had attached Grey Wind’s head to her brother’s body and made a mockery of everything she had loved. Her hands clawed at her throat. She was going to pass out. The three soldiers that had dragged her outside had commented on how pretty she was as they ripped open her dress with his hands still sticky with her family’s blood. Her chest burned and blackness danced in her vision.

A hand landed heavily on her shoulder, and Regan turned her terrified gaze upwards at the man who would probably kill her. However, Jaime’s eyes seemed to hold a flicker of concern as he grabbed both of her hands in his to halt their frantic assault on her throat. He placed them to his own chest, and Regan tried ripping them away in disgust.

“Hey, hey. Just breathe, Little Wolf. Feel that?” He held her hands closer to his skin and inhaled and exhaled deeply.

She nodded, trying to copy his actions. In and out. Squeezing her eyes shut, Regan tried to find peace in her shattered mind. She thought of her fifteenth nameday that she shared with Robb. They had snuck out that night with Jon and Theon and sat in the snow passing around a bottle of ale until their cheeks were warm and their toes frozen.

Regan opened her eyes and sucked in a large gulp of air, hungrily trying to feed her starved body. She slumped forward, breathing unevenly as her head ached. Without realizing it, her fingers had grasped onto Jaime’s shirt. She immediately removed them, clutching on to the skirt of her abused dress in order to avoid their obvious shaking.

She had absolutely no idea what to say, so she just turned her eyes up at him and waited. She didn’t feel strong like Robb or noble like their father or reckless like Arya. She just felt like a little girl. Any flame of anger she had once possessed felt like it had been extinguished rapidly, and the hollowness in Regan’s chest swallowed her whole once more. She missed her family so much it felt like her heart had been torn from her body, but she didn’t care for vengeance. The thought of more death made her sick.

He took a step away from her, swallowing. She watched as his throat worked. “That was not right of me. I shouldn’t have said that.” His voice was hoarser than it had been before, and Regan thought it was because they were the first words he had said that not intended to mock or belittle.

She could only nod. Her hands fluttered up to her throat, and she winced when she felt a deep scratch. It seemed no part of her would be spared bloodshed. Regan peeked up at Jaime again, although he seemed reluctant to meet her eyes. In a tiny voice, all fight gone, “What are you going to do with me?”

He collapsed on the bed, splaying his long legs outward and letting his head fall forward onto his hand. “I made a oath to someone I respect deeply. Heavens above, I think I’m going to help you.”

She blanched, “Help me?”  Her voice dripped with disbelief.

Jaime nodded, pinning her to her frozen spot on the wall with his emerald eyes and ran his hand along his jawline, rubbing at the skin with two fingers as if he could diffuse the tention in his entire body. “I won’t talk about honor or oath’s to Ned Stark’s daughter. Not when I know what the people say about me. I made a vow to help one of your mother’s knights return her daughters to safety, and I intend to uphold that. Even if just for the amusement of trying something new and surprising everyone when the Kingslayer sticks to his word.” The last part was said with a deep bitterness that Regan chose to ignore.

He could easily be lying, but she could not understand what he had to gain by deceiving her. She was already in his room and she was absolutely defenseless. If he wanted to, he could have turned her over when she was unconscious instead of bringing her to his private quarters and laying her on his bed. She knew she had always been trusting, her brothers reminded her of it constantly, but she truly had no choice but to take him at his word. She would be better off to get on his good side rather than irritate the famously temperamental knight any more than she already had. Regan imagined even if she did manage to escape this room, she would only be met with more guards. She shivered at the thought of being brought before the queen.

A thought nagged at her, like a shadow of her former self. Regan briefly allowed her mind to flutter to a forbidden, stale memory of being sixteen and enamored with the golden knight. She refused to believe his intentions were honorable, but she couldn’t help but notice in his own way, this was the second time he had inadvertently saved her. When she had arrived in the capital after weeks of journeying only to discover Sansa, one of her last family members, had recently disappeared something inside her had broken irreparably. She had slumped down and refused to get back up, allowing the cold and hunger to eat away at her lifeless form and prayed for an end to her misery. Three days later, she was waking up in a Lannister room with the golden lion himself smirking down at her.

He clenched his jaw, and pulled up the sleeve of his arm to reveal a deep wound. Jaime inspected the gashes with an impassive face. Regan dared a tiny step closer, finding the cuts to resemble teeth marks. Realizations struck her, followed closely by worry. “What of my direwolf, Ser?” She pressed, thinking of her beloved wolf.

Jaime stood and walked over to one of his dressers. Pulling it open, he returned with gauze. “The beast is safe. I couldn’t risk bringing two wolves into the castle, now could I?” He spat the question at her like she was personally to blame for the blood dripping from his arm.

She sat on the bed next to him, wary to keep a good distance between them. “You didn’t hurt him, did you?”

Her looked up at her like she was crazy with the white fabric between his teeth as he attempted to wrap the wound with one good hand. The look told her her wolf was more than capable of caring for itself. Regan remembered the day Robb had brought her Kasper. He was a tiny pup at the time, and she had loved him from the first moment she had seen him. Now, he was the last link to her home and family and she mentally promised she wouldn’t leave the capital without him.  

She watched Jaime continue to struggle. His jaw was clenched in frustration and she could see how his fingers shook every time he dropped the wrapping.

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, grabbing the gauze from him and motioning for him to put his crippled hand on her lap. He looked hesitant for a moment, and Regan saw the shame that passed over his features. The most skilled knight in the Seven Kingdoms had lost his sword hand. The act was cruel, and Regan hated herself for feeling something akin to sympathy for the Lion of Lannister.

A deep sigh tore itself from Jaime’s chest like hadn’t decided whether to be annoyed or amused. Without an ounce of dignity, he plopped the arm onto her lap and glared resentfully at his fake hand.

The sight of blood had never disgusted her before. She used to tend to her sibling’s injuries all the time, but now the coppery smell had her queasy. Regan talked in order to distract herself as she wrapped the wound. “Isn’t that uncomfortable?” With her eyes, she briefly gestured to the golden hand strapped to his amputated forearm.

This time Jaime did let out a barking shout of laughter at her bald-faced question, but there was no warmth in it. “You Starks are brutally straightforward, aren’t you?”

Regan just shrugged, not looking up as she tied to bandage. In another world, one where she and Sansa stayed up late at night and dreamed about their future husbands, she might have blushed at the heavy weight of his arm against her legs. But that was not this life and she was not that girl.  Now she just wanted the injury to be taken care of as quickly as possible so she did not have to stare at his bloody arm and think of all she had lost.

“It is.” He rubbed the back of his neck like the answer to his question made him uncomfortable. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

He nodded to her right hand, and she curled her fingers inward. Stripes of scars ran along her hand, snaking around her fingertips. The skin that had been burned was slightly puckered, and had healed various shades of silvery white and newborn pink. “Lannister red,” she whispered, remembering the words from when the Bolton men had laughed and forced her hand into an open flame.

Jaime grew silent after that, removing his arm and not looking at her. The both just sat in his exquisitely ornate bedroom and tried not to let their memories swallow them whole.


End file.
